Love Letters
by ButterflyAlexandria
Summary: Aziraphale comes across a mysterious bundle of letters in his shop one evening after the apocalypse that wasn't. Inspired via an Instagram prompt.
1. Chapter 1

This was written in a one night fury and edited by myself the morning after, so apologies if there are any spelling or gramatical mistakes I missed. I may write more on this little prompt but I can't promise anything concrete. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

"Really, angel, do you need to take stock of the whole shop?" Crowley laments dramatically as he leans against a support beam. "The antichrist put everything back just like it was."

Aziraphale shakes his head as he carefully pulls down another stack of books and maneuvers them over to his desk. "He's made new additions, Crowley," He gestures to the shelf of shiny new children's books. "As such, I can't be sure if he's supplemented other pieces in my collection with similar additions. So, I must go through and catalog each and every piece of literature I have." He smiles softly as he sits down behind his desk. "And I am most defiantly looking forward to it."

Crowley had been hoping to have another night like the one they'd shared at the Ritz, but seeing the joy on his angel's face, he knows better than to drag him away from his books. Aziraphale will have to go through the whole collection himself to make sure it's all there and Crowley knows that, but that doesn't mean he has to like it.

He groans and shoves off the post. "Fine; sort through all your books until another apocalypse!" He throws his hands up, spinning around to face the exit. "See if I care."

"Crowley, my dear," Aziraphale says softly, stopping Crowley in his tracks. "I promise that as soon as I am finished, we may dine together at whatever establishment you wish."

Crowley takes a breath and looks over his shoulder, pulling his sunglasses down to meet Aziraphale's eyes directly. "I'll hold you to that." He saunters out, leaving Aziraphale to his books.

Aziraphale smiles after him for a moment before carefully putting on his spectacles and picking up the first book in the stack. It is only books for now, as he plans to go through the many manuscripts and scrolls he has afterward. He grabs a pen and makes a note on the large (currently empty) ledger book of the title, author, and year of publication. And so it goes for hours. Each piece of literature brings back fond memories of the story it tells or the story of the author attached to it. For many books, Aziraphale can't help but open the cover and read a few of his favorite lines.

For Melville's, "I would prefer not to." Aziraphale can't help but giggle.

Chaucer's "Embrouded was he, as it were a meede,

Al ful of fresshe floures, whyte and reede;

Syngynge he was, or floytynge, al the day,

He was as fresh as is the monthe of May." Makes him sigh at the beauty in the words, and remember to be grateful for when English had been standardized.

He is delightfully pleased when he comes across his collection Shakespeare's sonnets, which he always found wonderful despite how often and easily the playwright wrote them.

Bronte's "Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same." Makes him hum happily at the wonderful love story she'd written.

Milton's "To do ought good never will be our task, / But ever to do ill our sole delight." Makes him think of a certain wily demon with a smile.

Harper Lee's "Real courage is when you know you're licked before begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what." Reminds him of recent events when they'd refused to give up, and of the amazingly determined women who wrote the words.

Saavedra's "Finally, from so little sleeping and so much reading, his brain had dried up and he went completely out of his mind." Makes him laugh and be grateful that the isn't a human, and could happily read for days on end with no issues.

Sir Conan Doyle's "When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." Reminds him of the wonderful times he had reading his intriguing mysteries and the shocking twists which Aziraphale had never seen coming.

Lord Tennyson's "Theirs not to make reply, / Theirs not to reason why, / Theirs but to do and die:" makes him shiver at the ferocities he'd seen humans unleash on one another, but marvel at the power behind the words.

Karenina's "It's much better to do good in a way that no one knows anything about it." Makes him nod in agreement.

Wilde's "To define is to limit" and "The truth is rarely pure and never simple" brings a twinge of sadness for the loss of a man who was truly ahead of his time.

Amongst all these books and many more, Aziraphale loses himself. It is nearing dawn when he finally starts on the last self. He pulls out a stack of books and starts when a pile of papers slips off the shelf and scatters on the floor.

"Oh, dear." He says worriedly as he sets the books aside and bends down to gather up the loose papers. As he does so, he is surprised to find that he doesn't recognize them. Aziraphale can tell that they are letters by the way they're folded (as if to fit in an envelope) but he doesn't recognize the rough yet sprawling handwriting he can see from the few that fell open.

"What have we here?" He asks, walking back towards his desk, looking over the top-most letter. He spots that it is dated and checks to see if the others are as well, which they are, so he sorts them to ensure he won't read them out of order. The letters start in 1801 and end in 1862, with each varying in length. Some go on for pages while others are only a paragraph or so long, but they are all addressed to the same person. With a little hum of excitement, Aziraphale sits back with the first letter in hand and starts to read.

* * *

Dove,

Writing letters that will never be sent is something people have touted to me as a good outlet for my 'feelings', which I scoffed at before but, here I am now, doing exactly that. It's just, I've been avoiding how you make me feel for years, eons even. I kept telling myself I was incapable of feeling that thing which I hesitate even now to verbalize but I cannot deny the truth any longer. If I keep trying to smoother and contain these emotions, I might explode. So, that's why I've resorted to this method as I certainly can't tell you or anyone else. No one would understand or sympathize; I'd receive only ridicule and condemnation, so I'll settle for telling this piece of paper all the ways I feel about you.

You are intolerable. You have no sense of self-preservation, which drives me insane! I find myself cursing your reckless actions more for your disregard for your own safety than the inconveniences they cause me. I still haven't gotten over that ludicrous trip to France you took, by the way. You are stubborn, annoyingly so. Once you've set your mind to something no one can change it, least of all me. So static to change and gullible to tricks. You are obsessed with food, to a degree I've never seen before, and are equally infatuated with books. I've never seen you as happy as when you're eating a decadent dessert or lost in a novel. And you always follow the rules, so chaste and polite, infuriatingly so.

You are incredible. You always do what is right, without regard for your own wellbeing, which always amazes me. I find myself in awe of your goodness despite the natural badness of the world around you. I still haven't forgotten the evening we had in France, by the way; I can't forget how happy you looked. You are determined, valiantly so. Once you've set your mind to something no one can change it, least of all me. So steadfast and kind to everyone. You are so passionate about food, in a way so unique, and are equally fascinated with books. You're never happier than when sampling a fresh crème Brulee or enraptured by Shakespeare's finest. And you always follow your morals, so virtuous and considerate, miraculously so.

I like you.

I adore you.

I love you.

* * *

And that is how the first letter ends. No closing line or signature, just the words I love you. Aziraphale gets the impression that this person must've become overwhelmed after writing what appears to be such complex emotions that they must've been unable to continue. It is very compelling and Aziraphle can't help but continue on to the next one.


	2. Chapter 2

Dove,

Maybe writing that first letter was a bad idea. I think I've gotten worse, really, not better. The past few years have been difficult. I can't see you very often, but I know I can't ask for more of your time. You're busy with your work and I'm busy with mine, and you don't need a bastard me like hanging around you for too long, but I want to. Every time we have a brief meeting, a walk in the park, lunch or dinner, or a run-in at work, I always find myself wanting more time. Before that letter, I enjoyed my time with you and was a little sad when we parted, but able to shake it off. Now, though, the brief time we spend together eclipses anything else I do. All I can really think about when I'm not with you is how soon can I be. It's selfishness really. When I am around you I just feel…good. I can't really describe how I feel in words but just thinking about it while writing this down makes me want to run back to your side to indulge in that emotion again and again, even if all I'm doing is watching you read. Though, I particularly like listening to you talk, which isn't hard to accomplish. You can talk for hours on end about whatever books you've recently read or whatever new restaurant you'd like to try or some peculiar behavior the kids are displaying nowadays. (I don't think you'll ever understand modern life, not for as long as you live) I think I enjoy it so much, not only for your soothing voice but also watching the emotions play out on your face. You tend to light up when you ramble about something that makes you happy, smiling brightly, eyes twinkling. When you're agitated or annoyed, you get a face I'd equate to an upset puppy. Your eyebrows furrow and your lips turn slightly downwards into an upset line. Not a frown though, no, you have to be sad to frown. The few times I've seen you sad hurts me in a way I didn't think was possible, even before my admission in the last letter. Such a pure, good-hearted and well-intentioned being should never be frowning. And the two times I've seen you cry, it nearly destroyed me. Which is why I'd do anything to get you smiling again.

Perhaps this is all some elaborate scheme concocted by your superiors to entrap me. A way to control me and mitigate the damage I do by using you as a handler. If so, they're doing a marvelous job of it.

I'm well and truly damned now.

* * *

Aziraphale closes the second later, dated 1803, with a confused hum. The beginning had been lovely. While not as forthcoming has he would've liked, what with the inability to probably verbalize the writer's emotions concerning the "Dove", it was a treat to read such kind words written with such obvious love. The ending is what has Aziraphale a little puzzled. Perhaps 'superiors' was a way to refer to these two's families? Maybe that is what was keeping them apart? Along with the fact that this writer must be someone who…is troubled, judging by the self-deprecating label of "bastard" and the talk of the damage he does.

It is the only explanation the angel can think of so he accepts it. He gently sets the letter aside and picks up the next, dated 1804. This one is a good bit longer than the first two, so Aziraphale settles in.

* * *

Author's Note: Alright! The second chapter I didn't know I had in me. All the positive feedback I got made me think my little fic could go on a for a little longer. I have no idea how long this is going to last, but we'll see! Also, not all of the letters are going to be love letters. I think, if Crowley did this at all, he would also take time to just vent about shit that pissed him off or just talk about his day so a couple will be like that, though the majority will be focused on Aziraphale because, who are we kidding, we're all here for a shit ton of fluff. Also, some word choices I use may be a little out of character for Crowley, but I want it to be believable that Aziraphale could be reading this and not be clued into what is actually going on here. Sorry if it comes off a little awkward.

Thanks so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!

Never stop reading. –Alex


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Dove,

Have you heard about Trevithick's newest invention? A machine that moves on its own, with the power of steam! It's extraordinary what humans have accomplished! I attended one of his demonstrations in Wales, severely doubting the hunk of iron would actually run, but it did! It hissed and whistled and slowly started screeching down the two iron rails Trevithick built for it, all on its own thanks to the steam engines! It was amazing! You should've seen it, Dove. Hopefully, with any luck, these machines will replace horses as the main mode of transportation soon. You know how bad I am with those beasts of burden. The horse I rode to the demonstration nearly bucked me off three times, the damn thing. I can't seem to get those stupid animals to listen, no matter what I do or how I threaten them. And the fact that you're so good with them does nothing for my ego. That one time I had to hitch a ride from you was humiliating.

As much as I'd like to think that I went to that demonstration solely due to my interest in the invention, I feel that would be a slight lie. Usually, I don't care about lying. In fact, I enjoy it. Watching people buy into whatever story I've made up can be gratifying, but it isn't the same with you. I try to avoid lying to you at all if I can help it. I can't say exactly why other than it just feels wrong, though this is a moot point as you'll never read any of this anyway. It's been a year since I saw you last, and if I am honest (which almost pains me to do so) I think that trip to Wales was largely a distraction. I ended up enjoying myself thoroughly, don't get me wrong, but I had gone with no belief that the thing would actually run. Just a vague hope that it would distract me, if even for a few minutes, from the fact that I haven't seen you for so long. It's odd, really. A year in the grand scheme of things isn't all that long but when it's a year without you, it feels like a century. I just went back and read that sentence and want to set myself on fire for writing something so incredibly sappy, but it's true and I hate that it's true. I hate that you're the only being that I feel horrible lying to. I hate how making you laugh feels like some great accomplishment that I'll never be able to top until the next time I make you laugh. I hate how comfortable I feel around you, and I hate how stark the differences between us are when I am around you, clearly displaying how impossibly inadequate I am in being your…friend? Is that what we are? Can I call us that? Would that ever even be allowed? No, most likely not, and I hate that as well. I hate that I have to constantly look over my shoulder anytime I even sit down beside you let alone talk to you. I want to always be in your company, in whatever capacity you'll allow for as long as you'll allow. But you never stay for longer than a few hours. It's too dangerous, I know, but every time you are saying goodbye I ache to just shout for you to have another drink, order another dessert, something, anything to keep you by my side for just a little bit longer. I never do, obviously. I can't. You would say no and leave anyway, leaving me sadder from the rejection than if I had just let you leave without saying anything. So I keep my mouth shut and watch you walk away.

Before I sat down to write this letter, I had promised myself it'd be more like a journal and less like something Romeo would write to Juliet if they hadn't been suicidal idiots, and yet here I am. So, in the hope of steering this letter in a better direction, did you hear about the duel in America? Some American bureaucrat shot another bureaucrat and ended up killing him. I was a little upset I missed it, actually. There just aren't enough pistol duels nowadays, if you ask me. I'm sure you'd disapprove, saying something along the lines of "they should've talked it out" or some crap like that. Well, I'm actually considering visiting America for a while to check out what they've been up to. It's most defiantly more lawless, as of yet unsettled land than England and I think I need that change of pace. Some chaos rather than the quaint domesticity you enjoy. Hopefully, I'll be able to watch the next pistol duel in person and give you the gory details I know you'll hate when I get back if you agree to meet with me that is. Maybe we can discuss it over dinner at some new restaurant that may open between now and then. My goal is to distance myself for another year and then ask. That should be long enough between meetings for you to feel comfortable to have dinner with me. Of course, I'll scout out the location, wherever it ends up being, beforehand to make sure the food is up to scratch. Can't have you being disappointed at the end of the evening. I've also heard about some brewery in America that makes great apple cider, so I'll make sure to grab a case for us to share afterward. I'm looking forward to it already.

* * *

"How delightful!" Aziraphale exclaims aloud as he sets down the letter. Despite the author claiming he was being too sappy, Aziraphale found the whole thing charming, but also painful in the strangest way. This poor unknown man feels so strongly about this 'Dove', clearly loving them intensely, but is unable to express it in any way other than secret unsent letters. Atop that, this author feels that this beautiful love and devotion is wrong, or dangerous. What could possibly make the man feel this way? Perhaps the object of his affections is another male? Well, that is assuming the author themselves is a male but Aziraphale feels that is the case.

Humans always had this horrible misunderstanding about the Almighty and homosexuality. In actuality, She has no qualms with a man loving a man or a woman loving a woman. Love is beautiful and should be cherished in all forms, no matter what and Aziraphale, a being of love, has always supported those who are so often callously abandoned by their families or society. Reading these first few letters makes him wish he would've been there to help this mysterious and troubled man come to terms with his complex emotions and help him build up the courage to admit them to Dove.

Seeing as that isn't possible, Aziraphale settles for moving onto the next letter, dated 1806.

* * *

Author's Note: This took a little longer to get done due to the length, but mostly because I had to fact check what the heck was going on in 1804. I apologize for any historical inaccuracies but I am not a historian and this fic is just for fun. So was this too sappy? Not sappy enough? Should I keep going? Let me know what you think.

Never stop reading. - Alex


	4. Chapter 4

Dove,

My trip to America was eventful and lasted longer than I had originally intended. I was able to visit the bustling cities of New York, Boston, and New Orleans, all of which had their ups and downs. I didn't stay in the north for long, as it was simply too cold, and spent most of my time in the south. I saw plenty of tiny towns brimming with gossip and family dramas which were highly entertaining. I am happy to report that I was able to watch a pistol duel, two actually. One between some random drunkards after a brawl in a bar, and the other, much more exciting one, between Andrew Jackson and Charles Dickinson. Charles Dickinson was some horse breeder who was well-known on the racing circuit to have a rivalry with Jackson and not much else. Jackson, however, is a man whom I have the utmost respect for. According to various sources, he has participated in upwards of 20 duels and won all of them! He is also the man who won the belated battle of New Orleans. I say belated as the war was already over by the time he won the battle but I think it still counts. It was after a horse race in Kentucky I'd attended, betting heavily and encouraging others to bet as well of course, when I caught wind of the duel. Apparently, Dickinson had accused Jackson of cheating and being a cowardly scoundrel, going on to insult his wife by calling her a bigamist. With all of that, I think that Dickinson must've been looking for a fight which Jackson readily agreed to give him. They arranged a meeting place and time, which I made sure to show up at the following day. Each armed with a pistol, they waited for their seconds to signal. Dickinson managed to fire first, striking Jackson in the chest. It had hit incredibly close to his heart, so close I thought it _had_ hit his heart at first. Jackson, only momentarily impeded, put his free hand over the wound to staunch the bleeding and returned fire. Unluckily for him, his gun misfired. Ordinarily, this would mean Dickinson would be the winner of the duel, and most of the people who had gathered to watch assumed as much and started applauding Dickinson, but I knew better. A man as violent and determined as Jackson would not be beaten by a mere misfire, so I kept my eyes on Jackson. I watched as he gnashed his teeth together, his eyes burning with fury. He ignored the pain and the blood pouring down his chest and quickly reloaded, letting off another round towards Dickinson. It struck him directly in the head, killing him instantly. It was a shocking breach of etiquette which I applauded heavily. Jackson stayed standing long enough to hand off his gun to his shocked second before he fell to his knees. He was rushed off to receive medical attention and was, by default, declared the winner. It was very exciting and I was glad to have been able to see it, as I left a few months afterward.

I am currently writing this at my desk hours before I am due to meet you for dinner. I'd arrived back in England a week ago and spent the time scouting out possible locations you might be interested in visiting. When I found a suitable place, I headed over to your place. Along the way, I happened to pass by one of your favorite patisseries so I stopped and bought a sampler box and some fresh éclairs. When I arrived, you were reading, as usual. You looked up, obviously a little annoyed to be interrupted, but your expression changed to a bright smile when you saw it was me. It's only here, on this piece of paper which no one will read, that I feel safe admitting how that expression change, showing how you were happy to see me, _me_, made me weak in the knees. You stood up and said my name brightly, and I nodded my head towards you, unable to speak after seeing your smile. I held up the boxes which made you gasp in delight, saying I shouldn't have. I don't know how I couldn't when you react like that every time. You happily took the boxes from me and invited me to sit down for tea, but I declined. I knew that if I had tea with you then, you wouldn't want to meet later for a proper dinner. I said I was free tomorrow and I mentioned the new restaurant I found and you said you'd been looking forward to trying it, so I asked if you'd like to go together. You agreed and I had to refrain my response to a singular head nod and a strained "Good; see you then." You smiled at me again and said the same, though more eloquently but you're always eloquent. It was difficult to leave after that. I just wanted to stay and listen to you talk about everything that happened while I was gone. I wanted to stay and watch you enjoy your deserts which I know you'll savor every bite. I wanted to watch you laugh at my horrible jokes and shake your head at me while I recounted my adventures in America, but I was able to walk away with the promise of seeing you tonight.

I wish I had set the time earlier. I want to be with you now, but I must hold out for these last few hours. That is why I began writing this letter in the first place, actually. To bide my time. Now I can think of nothing else but the coming evening and there is a bundle of emotions within me. I'm excited to see you, but I'm also nervous about something going wrong. I hate that I'm excited to see you and I'm afraid someone on our respective sides will see us. I'm also worried about what I should say. Of course, you'll most likely be doing most of the talking, which is fine by me, but I want to speak about my America trip a little. I think I'll just mention the duel, and not describe to the degree of detail I did earlier. I know you'd able to _handle_ the detail, as we've both seen worse in our lives, but I know you'd _prefer_ not to. I also remembered to get that apple cider I mentioned in the previous letter, which I am sure is the best I've tasted thus far. Full of spices and pungently strong, I hope you'll enjoy it. I'll make sure to bring a chardonnay as a backup, but I think you will like it.

I'd best be getting ready.

* * *

Aziraphale sets the letter down, shaking his head. This man enjoyed pistol duels far too much. However, he smiles as the thinks about how considerate the man was when it came to his Dove. He brought him apple cider back from his trip to America, knew what would upset Dove to talk about so he could avoid it, and he stopped and got him pastries! Actually, thinking about it, an éclair sounds delightful right now. Aziraphale knows he can simply miracle himself some, but he never gets the same satisfaction when he does it that way. He glances at the remaining letters and the clock which reads 8:03, debating. He knows the baking schedule of a bakery down the street and the letters won't be going anywhere.

The temptation is too great, so Aziraphale stands, straightening out his waistcoat and grabbing his jacket from off the coat rack. He locks up and strolls down the street, smiling happily at nothing in particular. These letters are a marvelous surprise that he is thoroughly enjoying. He simply must remember to thank young Adam for making them appear in his shop, as it must've been him who put them there, though he can't see a reason why.

"Ah! Mr. Fell!" The man who runs the bakery says loudly as Aziraphale enters, inhaling deeply at the wonderful smell of fresh bread. One of Aziraphale's favorite smells on Earth.

"Good morning Mr. Blare!" Aziraphale says vibrantly while waving.

"And a good morning to you!" And to Mr. Blare, it was a good-morning. His dough had risen perfectly, it'd baked beautifully, and his éclairs had come out flawlessly. And, as was customary any time Mr. Fell walked into his shop, he felt a sudden surge of happiness which manifested in a bright smile.

"I hope you've been in good health, yes?" Aziraphale questions as he walks up to the counter.

"Perfectly good, Mr. Fell."

"And your daughter, Valery, has she been getting along alright?"

"She's been doing better, Mr. Fell. Told her to take it easy at her next football practice. Hopefully, that'll be the last broken bone we'll have to deal with for a while." Aziraphale nods, letting out a relieved sigh. His already happy mood lifted even more. "Now, what can I get for you today?"

Aziraphale chuckles and holds his hands behind his back. "I'm sure you know, Mr. Blare."

Mr. Blare does indeed know exactly why Mr. Fell is here. He always comes to his shop every Monday, as that is when he makes his batch of éclairs. It has become so routine that Mr. Blare sets aside 5, especially for the kindhearted man.

"Yes, I have your éclairs ready, but is there anything else you'd like?" Aziraphale hums and scans the display case for anything that might catch his fancy. Mr. Blare notes his indecision and says, "I recently made a new macaroon you might like. Salted caramel."

"Oh, yes! That sounds delightful! Yes, I think I'll have about ten of those and a few of your lovely croissants." Mr. Blare nods and quickly gathers up Mr. Fell's order while chatting with him more. As he rings Mr. Fell up, he insists he takes a cup of hot cocoa on the house. Aziraphale tries to refuse but Mr. Blare won't have it. Aziraphale relents, but subtly miracles the cost of the cocoa and a good amount extra into the tip jar.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Blare, and may you have a blessed day."

A feeling of peace and calm happiness washes over Mr. Blare. "You too, Mr. Fell. I hope to see you next Monday."

"Certainly!"

And with that, Aziraphale walks back to his shop, a bag of goodies hanging off his arm and a slight skip in his step.

* * *

**Author's Note: Finally, chapter 4! This was finished at 4 in the morning and isn't beta-ed so sorry for any mistakes. How'd you like that little bit about Andrew Jackson's duel? I had a great time looking up what happened that year and writing about it but was that too much? Too out of character for Crowley? And would you guys like to see more of Crowley recounting major events through the years in these letters or less? Let me know in the comments. Really, I won't feel offended if you want less, just let me know what you guys want. Also, did you like the bit with Aziraphale at the bakery?**

**Now, I may begin skipping more years between letters or simply summarizing some of the less important letters for the sake of my sanity. Writing a letter every other year or so until 1862 would be almost 30 letters (chapters) and I don't think I could manage that, especially with college starting up again in a few weeks. The next update may be a little delayed as I'd like to get a more concrete plan on how I'm going to proceed from this point but I'll aim to get it out sometime next week. Hope you guys enjoyed!**

**Never stop reading. – Alex **


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Aziraphale doesn't hurry back to his shop. It was such a lovely day out, a rarity in England, that he simply can't bring himself to rush back even though he really wants to read the next letter. So he takes his time, admiring the sky and how bright the leaves on the trees are. He smiles at every person he passes and helps an older man cross the street. He is walking past a small park when he spots a woman running and looking around. With this lady so obviously searching for something, Aziraphale approaches her to see if he can offer any assistance.

Jenny Days has been frantic ever since her annoying nephew left the front door open early this morning, letting her beloved pet cockatoo Lily escape. Though she desperately wants to find her, she holds little hope of finding a bird in the middle of London. It would be nothing short of a miracle. Of course, she has no idea that the person who is about to offer her help performs miracles daily.

"Excuse me," Aziraphale beings warmly, making Jenny look over her shoulder. What she sees is a man dressed very formally in white and beige, with soft blue eyes and hair that looks like Lily's downy feathers. "You appear distressed. Is there anything at all I could help you with?"

"Oh, it's my cockatoo. Lily. She got out earlier and…I just can't find her." Jenny looks back to the trees, hoping to see a flash of white in the leaves. Aziraphale, understanding the woman's distress, takes a cursory glance around, as if expecting the bird to appear from thin air. Obviously, this doesn't happen, so he looks back at the woman.

"May I ask for the name of your bird?"

Jenny absentmindedly responds, not really expecting this one stranger to be much help. "Lily."

Aziraphale clears his throat primly and calls out once, loudly, "Lily! Do come here! Your owner is dreadfully worried about you!" He makes sure to use his angelic influence to project the message, if not the words, as far as possible and encourage any nearby birds to fly to his location. As a result, a whole flock of pigeons, a small murder of crows, a smattering of bluebirds, finches, mocking birds and many other species descend upon Aziraphale within a minute.

Jenny Days is shocked into silence, but Aziraphale is much too busy searching the large collection of birds for a cockatoo to realized that this might've been too much. Finally, one of the last birds to arrive is panicked and ruffled Lily.

"Ah!" Aziraphale says, making Jenny jump. He holds out his arm, beckoning the incoming bird to land which she immediately does. He pulls the bird close to his face, accepts the birds kiss on his nose with a quiet laugh, and then looks back at Jenny.

"Lily!" Jenny says from her position a few feet away. She would run towards her pet but the man is currently surrounded on all sides by birds. Aziraphale notices this and blushes.

"Oh, I am so sorry, let me dismiss them." He looks down at the birds and smiles. "Thank you all for coming but Lily must return to her owner. You may all continue on with your day." All the birds then start to fly away, one cranky owl with a few disgruntled whos at Aziraphale for being woken up.

Once all the birds had dispersed, Aziraphale walks forward, stretching out his hand towards the lady. "Here you are! One cockatoo safely returned."

Jenny holds out her arm and Lily obediently returns to her, fluttering up to her shoulder to nuzzle her owner's cheek.

Jenny laughs happily and puts a hand around Lily, still a little frightened she might take off again. "Thank you so much! How did you do that?"

Aziraphale simply smiles and puts his hands behind his back. "Oh, you could say I'm a bird enthusiast of sorts. Birds and I get along quite splendidly, so they usually listen to me." Jenny Days isn't sure what to make of this explication, but Aziraphale is saying good-bye before she can question it any further.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I simply must return to my shop. I hope you have a splendid day!"

"Oh, thank you! And you too!" She calls out as the man hurries away.

Aziraphale manages to get back to his shop without being sidetracked after that last detour. He enters his shop and immediately turns the sign to closed. He doesn't want to deal with the hassle of customers right now. He has the letters to read after all.

He gets down a plate and puts a little bit of everything onto it along with a glass of milk. He settles down at his desk, making sure to keep his nibbles well-away from the letters. Under normal circumstances, Aziraphale would never permit such fragile documents such as the letters to even be near food items of any kind to avoid the possibility of crumbs or accidental spills, but this isn't normal circumstances. He simply must read this next letter as soon as possible so he forges the rule, just this once.

He takes a bite of a macaroon, humming in happy pleasure at the wonderful flavors and textures, and picks up the next letter, noting the date up at the top; 1812.

* * *

Dove,

It's been a while since I wrote one of these. To be completely honest, I forgot about this whole writing- things-out thing entirely. So much has happened in these 6 years. It's mind-boggling how quickly humans are moving nowadays, so much happening at once. A man of particular interest of mine is Lord Byron. Oh, what a perfect bastard of a man! I'm sure you've read a few of his works, knowing how prolific of a reader you are, but I'm not sure if you've actually met the man. It's an experience I would highly recommend. I was there when the swam the Hellespont a few years back, cheering the man on and I just recently attended the House of Lords to hear his speech. It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience, though not as much as the Beethoven concert we attended in Vienna last year. Actually, I can't stop thinking about it. It was one of the longer concerts we've sat through, which led to stints of boredom for me, but I enjoyed it regardless. You seemed to love every second of it, so I'm glad I suggested it. And although I appreciated Beethoven's music, he is a master of his craft, after all, I spent most of the concert watching you. You kept your eyes closed for the majority of the time, head swaying lazily along with the music during the slower bits, a soft smile on your face, or nodding along when it was a faster tempo, a much larger grin gracing your features. Occasionally, you'd open your eyes to watch Beethoven play or glance over at me, which resulted in my heart skipping a beat every time. I just barely managed to look elsewhere when you focused your attention on me, hopefully disguising the fact that I had been staring. You'd comment on a particularly beautiful bar or some masterful move Beethoven had just performed on the piano and I'd comment back something of the same. But what I really wanted to say was how stunning you looked. Not just the clothes you wore, which were years out of fashion and all too perfect for you, but just how…well, shown. Your love and passion for this world, for living in it, was so blindingly clear I swear you were glowing. The dinner we had afterward was equally as enjoyable. In-between bites of your _Sarde in Saor_ and sips of your red wine, you spoke at length of the performance, singing Beethoven's praises. You discussed once song for a solid hour and while I was listening it was more about the sound of your voice rather than the words themselves. Have I mentioned how I could listen to your voice for an eternity? It's soft and melodious, so peaceful and soothing, and each emotion that flits across your face is palpable in your voice. I could just listen to your voice and know exactly how you're feeling without ever seeing your face. Of course, seeing your face while you talk is something I would never give up, so I stared at you all the while, giving the appropriate hum of agreement or head nod when needed. At the end of the night, after I'd helped you onto the gondola and as I watched you disappear around a corner, I felt particularly morose. The feeling has never abated as I haven't seen you in ten years. I haven't been able to find an excuse to see you again. I remembered that in the past writing things down may have helped, a little. But this time, it hasn't helped very much. If anything, it's made me angry. I want to hang the consequences and spend the day with you without worrying for once! Forget listening to you for an eternity, I want to eat dinner with you for all eternity! I want to listen to you talk about the beauty of a symphony forever! I want to see you! It's been long enough, so I'm going to find you.

See you in a moment.

* * *

Aziraphale hums in a pleased manner, though not solely due to the croissant he just finished. The letter he just finished was, in his opinion, delightful. This man was obviously in the upper echelons of society if he was privy to a speech in the House of Lords and knew Lord Byron personally. Aziraphale himself had known the man, but that was during his later years in Greece. He hadn't the pleasure of meeting him around that time which he regrets as he had enjoyed his work. This higher station in society might further explain the man's inability to admit his feelings as such a lofty position would come with heavy scrutiny to the man's personal life. Also, if Aziraphale calculated the years correctly, he thinks he might've been at that concert the man had written about. It was a wonderful night for him as well, but he wishes he'd known that would-be couple was there so he could've encouraged their love. Crowley most definitely would've wanted to interfere, as he is wily demon always looking for ways to meddle in human lives but never overly maliciously as he claimed. This was something Aziraphale knew in his heart, now more than ever, but hardly spoke aloud as it always seemed to upset the snake.

Aziraphale sighs and takes a sip of his milk picks up a macaroon and the next letter.

**Author's Note: Okay, so explanation as to why this took longer than I had intended. I wrote the first part last week and took a break, thinking I'd come back to the letter part the next day or so. But then my brother got into an accident at work which resulted in his hand being broken in multiple places. For the rest of that week, I had to help him through some early recovery (like driving him to doctors offices, doing some housework he couldn't, etc.) until his girlfriend got back from her trip. Then school started back up and I had to worry about paying for tuition and getting the right classes and such. And then the assignments got piled on, two of which I am neglecting just to get this chapter out because I hate making you guys wait this long. But now it's out and I am moving on to the next chapter! All your positive comments and follows make me want to continue this so gosh darn it, I will do my best! If there are any historical events you think Crowley would have something to say about, positive or negative, feel free to shoot me a message and I'll try to incorporate it into the coming chapters. **

**Never stop reading. – Alex **


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